Blame the Dead

by Ed Ruggero

  He didn’t bother to read the short article, which, in the interests of secrecy, would reveal very little. He already knew the Allied bombers would strike his home city of Essen, part of Germany’s heavily industrialized Ruhr. He wondered for the thousandth time if Liselotte had taken the children from the city—she had relatives in the country, a hundred kilometers away from the arms factories that would draw Allied bombs like flies to honey. Mail from Germany had been sporadic even before the Allied invasion of Sicily, then it had stopped abruptly. Since his capture he had sent one letter, one side of a small sheet of International Red Cross stationery. If he was lucky it would reach her in a few months, though he had long since discounted luck. He was completely cut off from his family, knew nothing of his wife or two children, whom he’d last seen in September of 1942, knew nothing of his parents and their health. Where were they? Did they have enough to eat? Were there adequate bomb shelters in the city?

  Lindner folded the newspaper, put it on the floor between his feet, put his head in his hands. Sometimes, at night, he woke with a start, sure that something had happened to Liselotte, that she had screamed his name, that she was crying and huddled with the children, even that he could hear her. Sometimes he felt he might die from the uncertainty.

  What he did know of strategic bombing came from a cousin, Carl, a bombardier who had flown dozens of missions over London in 1940. Carl told him that the Luftwaffe targeted docks and factories, but those were only visible when the weather was clear. On cloudy nights, or nights when they were forced off course by the RAF, they dropped their bombs over any populated area. Carl had laughed when he told Lindner that the crews called bad weather “Women and Children Nights.”

  Carl was listed as fehlt when he failed to return from a mission over Dover, England, in late 1940, though Lindner thought “missing” might be harder on the family than “lost and presumed dead.”

  He stood, took a warm drink from a water bottle he kept next to his cot. He closed his eyes, opened them, said aloud and in English, “I will do my duty as a doctor, and I will do everything I can for my family.”

  The day after the Allied invasion, Lindner had been approached by an Abwehr officer, an intelligence agent who proposed an outrageous scheme.

  “You want me to do what?” Lindner had asked.

  The Abwehr man, a Berliner named Toffen, had tried to make it sound easy, something one could do without much thought or effort.

  “If high command decides to make a strategic withdrawal to the east, toward Messina or even back to the mainland, some of our most seriously wounded, those too badly injured to move, may be left behind. If you volunteer to stay with them, the Allies will put you to work as a physician. You will simply keep your eyes open. You will try to learn what you can about Allied plans for the campaign here. Or the next campaign.”

  “I know nothing of military operations,” Lindner had protested. “I would not even know what to look for.”

  “You talk to people,” Toffen had reassured him. “That’s ninety percent of intelligence work.”

  “Impossible.”

  They’d been sitting in a café in Palermo, near the general hospital where Lindner treated patients, men with those terrible wounds. At the other tables, doctors drank liters of coffee to stay awake on their lengthening shifts.

  Toffen had laughed, was still smiling when he said, “We know you studied in America. We know you speak excellent English and make friends easily.”

  The spymaster leaned forward. Lindner noticed that the elbows of his summer-weight suit were worn nearly through.

  “We also know that no one in your family has joined the party, that your father was a critic of the government.”

  Lindner forced himself to sit quietly. The man sitting across from him spoke calmly, as if discussing the best ski resorts.

  “Your family is in Essen, near the heavy industry centers that will be the target of Allied raids.”

  Lindner had nodded, afraid to speak.

  “They will need special permission to move to the country,” Toffen said. “I can arrange that. And you have a brother in the Luftwaffe, yes? Serving on the Italian mainland.”

  Lindner nodded again.

  “I’m sure he’ll be safe,” Toffen said.

  Lindner felt his hands shake, pressed them together under the table. “What if I don’t find anything? What if I can’t learn anything? I am not a spy, after all.”

  “Then someone higher up than I am will make a decision,” Toffen said. “I’m sure they’ll take into account that you did your best.”

  The very next day Toffen came for him at the hospital. Lindner had protested that wounded men were coming in and needed attention, but Toffen had dragged him off to meet a civilian, a middle-aged Italian from Rome who spoke passable German. They’d spent hours—hours in which Lindner knew young German soldiers were dying for want of a surgeon’s care—explaining how he and the man would exchange signals, how the man would make funds available to him should the need arise, how they would warn each other if they thought they’d been compromised. There was an apartment, but Lindner was only to go there as a last resort, if he had an urgent message.

  Lindner had been angry, incredulous that his skills were to be set aside for something like this.

  Toffen finally grew exasperated. “Look, Doctor,” he said. “There are people higher up who think that your loyalty is questionable. You’re a little too enamored of the Americans, for instance. This is your chance to redeem yourself and do some good for your family.”

  That’s when Lindner came to his realization. “So, I’m expendable.”

  “We’re all expendable, Doctor,” Toffen said.

  When Lindner had no retort, the agent leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

  “You can never write any of your instructions anywhere,” Toffen said several times. “You must remember all of this. Do you understand?”

  “I graduated with high honors from Leipzig,” Lindner snapped, suddenly angry. “You could take every bone in the human body, pile them on a table, and I could sort and name them. Can you do that? No? I will remember your instructions.”

  Toffen smiled mirthlessly. “I’m sure your family will appreciate it.”

  Remembering the conversation now, Lindner was disgusted at how easily he’d been manipulated, how callous Toffen had been. Sometimes he hoped the agent had been killed; other times he hoped the man was still alive and would make good on his promise.

  Lindner put his blouse back on and stepped outside the tent, looked over toward where the American doctors lived.

  Stephenson would have a footlocker or a cabinet of some sort. Lindner wanted to see what was inside, but he could hardly do that in broad daylight. He had an entire day to worry about what the Americans might find in Stephenson’s tent.

  Better to focus on things he could control.

  He grabbed his stethoscope and walked toward the POW ward to visit with the wounded men there.

  13

  3 August 1943

  0620 hours

  Donnelly and Harkins were finishing their breakfast when Colianno joined them, his mess kit piled with eggs, toast, and bacon.

  “Where did you sleep?” Harkins asked.

  “Where did you sleep, sir?” Colianno said.

  Donnelly laughed, and Colianno smiled at her.

  “I meant did you find a place to sleep. I’m supposed to take care of my driver, make sure you’re fed and all that stuff.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. I can take care of myself pretty good.”

  “You know, in the German Army they’d probably shoot you for being a smart-ass.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what the hell is that on your pistol belt?”

  Colianno looked down, as if he needed to check. There was a standard-issue leather holster with the embossed “US,” and Harkins could see the butt of a .45. But the lower part of the holster had been decorated with beads, as had the long laces meant
to be tied around the wearer’s thigh.

  “Bought it in Palermo.”

  “The ridiculous holster?”

  “Pistol, too,” Colianno said. “I bet you could outfit a regiment just from what the locals stole and are selling.”

  Ronan entered the tent. Donnelly waved to her, and she joined them carrying just a cup of coffee.

  “Morning,” Ronan said, straddling the bench seat. “You hear about Felton? She’s shipping out.”

  “She’s already gone,” Donnelly said.

  “I could still use your help,” Harkins said to Ronan. “I’m trying to get a read on Stephenson, so I can figure out why someone wanted him dead.”

  Ronan held her canteen cup in two hands, stared at the inky contents.

  Harkins allowed himself a bit of hope. She’s thinking about it.

  “Let’s walk over to that church,” Ronan said. “See if it’s empty.”

  The four of them stood, and Harkins said to Colianno, “Stay here.” If the paratrooper was smitten, he’d be no help questioning Ronan. Besides, the nurse probably needed privacy if she was going to talk.

  Donnelly, Harkins, and Ronan walked to the little chapel on the edge of the hospital compound. The churchyard wall was smashed flat in a half-dozen places, but they still went through the gate, out of respect or guilt. The sanctuary was lit by sunlight coming through the roof and the spaces where the windows had been. Fallen roof beams had crushed the pews on the right, but they found seats on the left side near the altar. They sat for a few moments, then Harkins started to speak. Donnelly silenced him with a look.

  Ronan held a small cloth cap in her hands; she rotated it, tugging at the bill, turning it over. Then she drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and looked right at Harkins.

  “Stephenson made my life a living hell from the day I arrived here. The very first conversation I had with him, we were walking into Surgery One. He stopped to let me go in first, and he put his hand on me.”

  Harkins raised one eyebrow slightly.

  “On my rear end,” she said. “And not just a pat.”

  When she paused, Harkins said, “OK. What else?”

  “He followed me into the supply tent another time, started kissing me, putting his hands all over me, pressing up against me. Saying disgusting things about what he wanted to do to me.”

  Ronan looked at Donnelly, who took her friend’s hand.

  “I know it doesn’t sound like much,” Ronan said to Harkins. “But it got to the point where I was afraid to walk around the hospital compound.”

  Harkins felt sorry for the woman, and he knew that if one of his sisters had come home telling this story, he and his brothers would have raced each other out the door to teach the guy some manners.

  But would he have killed someone?

  There was either more to the story, and Ronan was not ready to tell him, or Stephenson had been killed for some other reason.

  “I’ve heard that a number of nurses complained about Stephenson,” Harkins said. “Did you tell anyone what he did?”

  Ronan shook her head. “No. I knew that other women had complained, and that nothing happened, nothing changed. I thought I could just make myself keep going.”

  She looked up at Donnelly, and Harkins thought this would be easier on Ronan if there were such a thing as a female detective. But that seemed as likely as girl doctors.

  “You know,” she continued, looking at Donnelly’s hand in her own. “Like we do after a rough patch of casualties. Just push all that shit down. Plus I was afraid he would hurt me if I talked; I was really afraid.”

  Harkins asked, “Did he ever hit you?”

  “No, but he kind of let me know that he was untouchable.”

  “Because he was a doctor?” Harkins asked.

  Hesitation. Another look at Donnelly. “I don’t know. Maybe he knew something about Boone.”

  “Any idea what it might be?”

  “Not really.”

  “OK,” Harkins said. “Maybe it’ll come to you later.”

  Harkins put his elbows on his knees, leaned closer. Thought about what Adams said about Boone being an ally in the investigation. Boone couldn’t know that things had gotten this bad, could he?

  “Moira,” Harkins said. “May I call you Moira?”

  She nodded. She was not crying, Harkins noticed. Tough gal. She would need all the toughness she could muster.

  “I have to ask you this. Did you kill Stephenson? For what he did to you?”

  “No, of course not,” she said.

  “If she had,” Donnelly added, “she wouldn’t have told you all this. Why would she make herself a suspect?”

  Why, indeed? Harkins thought. There were pieces that were eluding him, angles he hadn’t considered, a logical train of thought that was just beyond his reach. There had to be some way detectives juggled all these possibilities while they gathered facts, while they pulled a story from the smoky confusion.

  Harkins said, “I’m sorry this happened to you, Moira. Stephenson was a genuine sonofabitch. I know what I would have done if he’d pulled that crap with one of my sisters.”

  She looked up at him, still hand in hand with Donnelly.

  “I’m afraid I have to ask another question,” Harkins said. He was thinking about legal definitions now. “Was anything Stephenson did to you … was anything he did criminal?”

  Ronan sat up straight, angry now, her voice lower. She was trying to control herself, Harkins thought, maybe hold something back.

  “He cornered me in the supply tent; I was alone. And he pulled his … he pulled his penis out. He had an erection. And he told me what he wanted to do to me.”

  Harkins shifted uncomfortably. “Did he? Do what he talked about?”

  Ronan sniffled, and Harkins saw Kathleen’s fingers flex, squeezing Ronan’s hand. “Yeah,” she said finally. “He raped me.”

  Later, Harkins would realize that was the point at which he should have stopped talking, but he was too focused on getting all the facts that might come out.

  “Before that, did you two ever do anything sexual? Talk about doing anything?”

  Donnelly stood suddenly, her eyes burning. “Come with me,” she said to Harkins.

  When they were outside and before she could say anything else, Harkins said, “I’m sorry. I really am. I had to ask.”

  “The hell you say. If Saoirse told you that story, told you some bastard whipped out his dick in front of her, then raped her, would you ask those asinine questions?”

  “If Saoirse had been attacked, no one would let me be the investigator.”

  Donnelly crossed her arms. “Listen to yourself, Eddie. Can you forget about your precious investigation for a goddamn minute and think about the effect on her? Jay-sus.” Then she turned and went back in the chapel.

  Harkins told himself he had to ask those questions. If there were a court-martial eventually, Stephenson’s behavior might come up, and Ronan—if she were called as a witness—might be exposed to worse treatment.

  On the other hand, that was a lot of ifs. He shook his head, knew he was rationalizing what he’d just done.

  “Lieutenant.”

  Harkins looked up to see Colianno coming toward him.

  “Colonel Boone just sent a runner to find Lieutenant Ronan,” the paratrooper said. “Wants to see her.”

  Harkins waited a few minutes before going back into the church. He walked up on the two women, both of whom had been crying. Donnelly had the heels of her hands pressed to her eyes.

  “Moira, Colonel Boone wants to see you. He sent a runner,” Harkins said.

  “Why?”

  “My guess is he wants to ask you about Stephenson. Maybe he heard Stephenson was bothering you. Boone is probably talking to a lot of people. If you want, I’ll come with you,” he said.

  “So I have to tell this awful story to everybody?”

  “Well, you don’t have a choice; he’s the commander, so you have to go, but it
’s up to you how much you tell him. And, who knows? Maybe talking to him can help.”

  “A little late for him to show interest,” Donnelly said. She rubbed Ronan’s upper back, just as she’d touched Harkins when he told her about Michael’s death. “I’ll come with you, too.”

  “Last night I was hoping this would all go away now that he’s dead,” Ronan said. “He got what he deserved.”

  “That may be,” Harkins said. “But it’s still a murder.”

  Ronan sat, shoulders slumped, a picture of exhaustion. Beside her, Donnelly chewed the nail on one thumb, looked at Harkins, then at her friend.

  “He might be tough on you,” Harkins said. “If he’s really transferring nurses to make all this go away, he might lean on you. Make you want to just shut up about the whole thing.”

  “I don’t want to tell him, you know, everything,” Ronan said. “He’ll just call me a liar.”

  “We’ll play it however you want,” Harkins said.

  “When does he want me?”

  “Now.”

  14

  3 August 1943

  0700 hours

  Though it was only a short distance, Harkins had Colianno drive him and the two nurses to Boone’s headquarters tent near the center of the compound. He could feel Ronan’s tension, the anxiety coming off her like heat. He sat with her and Donnelly, sent Colianno ahead to see who was inside. A minute or two later, the paratrooper came jogging back to them.

  “He’s in there. So’s First Sergeant Drake and a clerk.”

  Harkins had hoped to avoid Drake.

  “OK,” Harkins said. “Let me go in first, explain why I’m here.”

  Colianno helped the nurses out of the back of the jeep, squeezing Ronan’s upper arm as she stepped down. Harkins turned, pushed into the tent, and found Drake sitting at a field table. The tent was about thirty feet deep and divided into a front and back room.